I stayed after my music theory class, hunched over my notebook. The day's lecture had flown miles above my head; something about modulation and deceptive cadences. It made me question whether I made the right decision to come to Seaside. If I even understood music at all. I’d been doing that a lot.

My entire life, music had been my only real escape, besides track. Whenever my parents fought, music was what drowned them out. I never wanted to become like them, but their taste in music formed a protective shield from the never-ending discord. Sometimes it was Savage Garden, dreamy and sad in the best kind of way. Other times it was Howie Day or Dashboard Confessional declaring feelings I didn’t have the words for yet. My mom had a worn Toad the Wet Sprocket CD that always skipped, but I played it anyway. My dad liked the Backstreet Boys more than he admitted, blasting “Shape of My Heart” while pretending it was just “on the radio.” Dean introduced me to The Killers, Bon Iver, The 1975.

I remembered all of that. Every lyric felt more like a lifeline than a hobby. I never had the chance to learn how to read music. Mr. Forrest made sure I never forgot that. But still, I knew how a song was supposed to feel.

That had to count for something. But in this classroom, it didn’t mean a thing. It meant a failing grade on my first quiz and the money I spent on the three classes wasted. I was trying so hard to be good enough. To make Dean proud.

I knew that all of this should matter. Dean believed in me, believed I could be something. But Dean was gone, and I knew alone I wasn't good enough. I didn’t realize how badly I wanted to be heard again. My thoughts weren’t polished, and definitely not perfect, but they were a part of me that ached to come out. There was just no one there to listen. Not the way Dean did, without judgment and without wanting me to change.

Frustrated and dejected, I closed the Music for Beginners textbook I was trying so hard to understand with a clap. I made a horrible mistake. I didn't belong here, not without Dean. This wasn't a home, it was just loneliness.

Packing my duffel, I couldn't afford a backpack, I resolved to walk out of this classroom for the final time, but one of my lyric notebooks fell onto the floor.

Before I could reach it, someone had picked it up and was reading the random lyrics I had scribbled on the page.

“Are those lyrics for a song?”

I looked up, startled. Jess, the girl who always had the answers, who spoke in music like it was her native tongue, was watching me with a half-curious, half-knowing smile. Petite and without apparent effort into her look, she still exuded a quiet elegance and style that made her stand out in the room. Her long black hair, pushed behind her left ear, fell halfway down her back.

She handed me the notebook and I quickly closed it. “They’re just… thoughts.”

“Do you just write, or do you sing too?”

I hesitated. “I sing on occasion.”

Jess raised an eyebrow. “Sing something for me.”

My throat dried instantly. I shook my head. “Here? No, I don’t really...”

But Jess was already leaning in. “Come on. I won’t judge.”

My mind blanked. I wanted to leave, but I could almost feel a voice telling me I had to stay. Dean's voice. Then, quietly, I found myself singing the only melody that came to me; something half-forgotten, half-remembered from my mom’s late-night singing. I breathily started the opening lines to Eternal Flame.

When I stopped, the words lingering in the air, Jess blinked like she hadn’t expected it to be good. Or perhaps it wasn't good. She smiled, stood without saying anything, and disappeared around the corner.

I sat frozen, suddenly regretting everything.

A few moments later, she came back with someone slightly dragging behind her. A guy; lean, with a beanie over his disheveled hair and a soul patch under his lower lip, and a gentle and confident vibe, carrying a beat-up bass case that looked a lot like my guitar case. It made my head jerk up. Dean. He looks so much like Dean.

“This is Bastien,” she said. “He’s too shy to admit he’s a genius.”

Bastien gave me a crooked smile. “Was that you just now?”

I nodded slowly. I couldn’t stop looking at Bastien.

Jess crossed her arms. “You need to perform.”

“What? No. I don’t...”

“There’s an open mic this Thursday,” she cut in. “Sign up. Or we’ll sign you up.”

I looked at the two of them. Jess, fierce and full of fire; Bastien, calm and curious, and felt something ignite inside of me. It wasn’t pressure or pity I felt from them, but possibility.

I didn’t say yes.

But I didn’t say no either.